Hope More
by Ordinary Princess
Summary: Fear less, hope more; whine less, breathe more; talk less, say more; hate less, love more; and all good things are yours.
1. Disappear

She'd never wanted to come back here again. She'd told them, all of them, "I'm not coming back. I can't. I won't. Please don't ask me to." Then she Apparated to Bangkok, and no one came after her.  
  
After Ancient Runes, Thai didn't present much of a language challenge. And blending in with the Muggle world wasn't as difficult as she'd feared. Thailand was...wonderful, actually, after a lifetime of damp and dreary England. There were no memories there, nothing at all familiar. Best of all, even though she was English, she could lose herself in Bangkok. The city teemed with people of all races and nationalities. She was just one more tourist in the throng.  
  
She kept her wand, of course. She wasn't stupid. But she put it back in the Ollivander's box in which it had come and hid it in the far reaches of her wardrobe. She didn't need it once she'd cleaned out and exchanged the Galleons in her Gringott's vault. The Galleon had been particularly strong against the baht at that time, and she had more than enough money to set up house the Muggle way.  
  
For the first year, she was understandably on edge. Memories hovered too near the surface, and she spent most of her time looking over her shoulder or hiding in her flat. Loud noises (which were difficult to avoid in a city like Bangkok) made her jump. She slept with a light on, when she slept at all. Though she knew Muggle locks were nothing to a wizard, she had eight of them on her door. A breath of cool air on her neck had her reaching for her wand and looking around for Death Eaters. Happily, Thailand was short on cool breezes. Even the rainy season was oppressively hot after seven years of schooling in Scotland.  
  
After that first year in Bangkok, she enrolled at Chulalongkorn University. Chula had the highest academic rating of all the Thai universities, so it was reasonable that she'd enrol there. Her transcripts she forged. It was a quick bit of magic, but she was of age now and doubted anyone even noticed. For her, Chula was a refuge within the safe haven of Bangkok.  
  
At Chula, she once more made friends with books (not one attempted to bite her or emitted blood-curdling screams) and libraries (where no book was restricted) and professors (none of whom were likely to come to a tragic end at the hands of a megalomaniacal evil wizard with a snake fetish). She studied economics and the politics of opium amidst classmates who had not been cursed at birth by said evil wizard. She even learned to smile again, though that small feat took more study than her course on the history of Siam _not_ covered by Rita Skeeter's contemptible ancestor, Anna Leonowens.  
  
She thought she was happy. She thought she was finally free. She'd never meant to come back here.  
  
"Nee, there's a letter for you!"  
  
When she posted a notice for flatmates on the student notice board, she'd received thirty phone calls in just one day. One of the respondents was Anamaria Vazquez, from the United States. Anamaria had come to Chula on a summer exchange program and simply stayed. Ana was outgoing and bubbly – typically American, she thought. Ana made no apologies for it, though, and against all expectations, the two expats got on quite well. They'd been flatmates for three years now, while the flat's third room was routinely open for a new renter. At the time, it was empty; Ana suggested they turn it into a gym.  
  
"No return address, though," Ana continued. "Just your name, Ms. Hermione Granger. And what kind of address is this? Last flat on the right? Why can't they just write the PO Box and leave it at that? Honestly. Wait!" For the letter had been snatched from Ana's hands.  
  
There it was, in that bold green ink that had marked the end of summer for seven years. Ms. Hermione Granger. Well. She was a Ms now, was she? Amazing, the way her carefully constructed sense of security could crumble with a few strokes of green ink on parchment. She turned over the envelope – there was the Hogwarts seal, as fresh as if the envelope had just been closed. She glanced at Ana, who stood beside the couch expectantly, but gave no explanation before bolting to her room to read in private.  
  
_Dear Ms. Granger,  
I regret to inform you of the passing of Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your presence is required for the execution of Professor McGonagall's estate, which will be read at nine o'clock on January the twelfth, in the office of Professor Severus Snape, Deputy Headmaster, Hogwarts, etc.  
  
Sincerely,  
**S. Snape**_  
  
She sniffed. Sincerely, indeed. That man had never been sincere about anything, except perhaps his desire to make Harry's life miserable. And who had written that letter? Snape's handwriting had never been terribly legible, let alone dressed with calligraphy. She highly doubted the greasy git had turned over a new leaf. Hermione crushed the parchment in her hands and cast it away from her as the more important truths penetrated her mind.  
  
McGonagall, dead? Impossible. If ever there was a strong woman, it was Minerva McGonagall. She would never forget the night she saw the professor take four stunning spells to the chest. Two years after that, the old woman had seen Albus Dumbledore die; then she had risen up from his side to fight valiantly in the Last Battle. She had been Hermione's mentor all through Hogwarts, as close to a her as the girl had ever had.  
  
Dead.  
  
Hermione found she had nary a tear to shed for her once-honoured professor. Indeed, she hadn't cried in four years. Watching friends and fellow classmates fall all round while she stood, knowing that her parents had been killed simply because of her relationship to Harry Potter – these things had wrung every tear from her eyes. She simply had none left to shed over Professor McGonagall. She was sorry, of course, but not sorry enough to go back. She was determined never to go back. She couldn't. It was impossible. There were too many people missing, too many gaps where shining young faces had once been. Too many memories of death and destruction and deceit and despair. Too many people cringing when she walked into a room, too many others hailing her as a hero. Too many memories, too many recriminations...  
  
"Nee?" Ana tapped the door open. "Can I come in?" Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the room and plopped herself on the end of Hermione's bed. "Bad news?" she asked, gesturing toward the letter on the floor and the torn envelope still on the bedside table.  
  
Hermione looked at her flatmate with dry, red-rimmed eyes and wondered what she could say. "Yes." She slid off her bed and gathered up the letter and envelope. "An old...professor of mine died. In England. They want me to go back."  
  
"But?" Ana prompted.  
  
Hermione shook her head. "But I don't want to go. I don't intend to go, in fact. It would interfere with my courses here. I don't want to go back," she repeated. "Going back would interfere with my life here."  
  
"Death does tend to do that," Ana said with a small smile, "interfere with life."  
  
"I can't go back, Ana." She was serious, determined. Stubborn.  
  
Ana wisely let the discussion end there. And as January twelfth drew nearer without the topic coming up again, Hermione allowed herself to hope that it never would. The pair had found a third flatmate, a Thai girl, Su, who was a very serious medical student and had told them she would rarely be around. They went shopping "American style" at Central Lad Prao, one of Bangkok's innumerable malls. They even crashed a party at Rangsit University on the northern outskirts of Bangkok, near the airport.  
  
It was January tenth when Ana brought the letter up again, in the most shocking way possible.  
  
"You can just Apparate, can't you?" 


	2. Can't

**Sorry I forgot the whole disclaimer/summary thing on that first bit. So here it is, all in one fell swoop. _Basic disclaimer applies, as always: Characters & other recognizable devices belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Bros., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, no remuneration is received, etc._ And I'm not writing that again! Please review**

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It was early in the morning, and the two were picking their way through the produce and crafts of the floating market. Hermione nearly fell in the river. "What!" she exclaimed.  
  
"You can just Apparate, can't you?" Ana repeated. Hermione just stared, open-mouthed, in total astonishment. Ana shrugged. "Well, it's not like you have to buy a plane ticket, Nee. Even if the British Apparation test was the hardest in the world, you'd pass it. So you have no reason not to go back to Hogwarts for the will and everything."  
  
"You – you know...how did you—" Hermione spluttered, glaring at her friend. "Who are you?"  
  
Ana took a deep breath, then asked, "Tao rai? How much?" of the woman selling handwoven baskets to the foreign women. As always, Ana bartered for a fair price as easily as a native Thai. After three years, it was still a pleasure to see surprise and grudging respect register in the sellers' eyes once they realized Ana and Hermione spoke and understood the language as well as any Thai person.  
  
Hermione stood impatiently by until Ana had her baskets in hand and asked, "Well?"  
  
"Do you really think they would let you disappear off the face of the earth, just because you couldn't handle what had happened?" Ana asked. "Albus Dumbledore cared for more than just Harry Potter's safety, Nee. When you exchanged your gold for baht at Gringott's, a network went into effect." Hermione almost fell once again as her flatmate used terms one after another that Hermione'd always believed were peculiar to the wizarding world. "Maybe we should move away from the river first. Let's get an iced tea." She steered Hermione away from the market and to a riverside café that was just opening. "Or would you prefer something stronger?"  
  
Hermione just sat, speechless, and waited for Ana to explain.  
  
"My aunt works for Gringott's. She heard about your transaction and contacted me. It really was perfect timing. I wanted to stay in Bangkok and needed new digs; you needed a flatmate. I was just relieved you seemed normal, not a big-headed celebrity, 'I-Saved-the-Wizarding-World' type." Hermione gasped and looked angry. Ana held up her hand. "I said you're not like that, Nee. Listen. Anyway, since we seemed to get along, I promised my aunt I'd keep her apprised, and she could do whatever she needed to do with that information.  
  
"They just wanted to make sure you were safe and not self-destructive, you know. Lots of magical folk go through a sort of test period where we don't use magic. Especially if they're like us and come from Muggle stock." Hermione blinked. She was past simply speechless and had fallen into silent shock. "So Mom made sure a couple of people knew," Ana continued. "Minerva McGonagall and some guy – Snake? Snap? Well anyway, him. She made sure they knew you were okay, and if they needed to contact you, they were to go through her, which would then, of course, go through me. They agreed to say nothing to anyone about where you went, so that you really could disappear for awhile.  
  
"Only now..." She took a sip of her tea and surveyed her friend of the past three years. "Only now they've broken the rules. It must be important, then. Who died, Nee? Who sent you that letter?"  
  
Sweat glistened on Hermione's skin as she contemplated her answer. The sun was already beating down, threatening to burn her from golden tan to lobster red. She could feel her perennially bushy hair fight for freedom from the many pins that kept it tame and off her neck. A slight breeze floated off the river. She could smell the pungent scent of hot and sour soup nearby, combined with the smell of refuse wafting up from the Chao Phraya river. The din of high speed water taxi motors clanged in her ears. She sipped her drink and savoured the too-sweet taste of tea with condensed milk and taro balls. She stared back at her friend, and all her anger drained away.  
  
It wasn't Ana's fault. Not really. Hermione's own logic had been her undoing. It made sense, after all, to start over with enough money to buy essential things like dinner, and a place to sleep. And if she was going to take some money, it had seemed logical to take it all. She should have done it in London, though. Changed her Galleons to pounds sterling and taken only non-magical money with her.  
  
Of course, then they would have simply traced her wand. She knew the Ministry of Magic would have done it, even in its post-war state of constant muddle. She should have known. Ana was right – Dumbledore had security around more than just Harry. There had never been any real chance of her disappearing. Luna Lovegood, maybe. Seamus Finnegan, probably. But Hermione Granger? One third of the Holy Wizarding Trinity? Never.  
  
In characteristically lifeless tones, Hermione told Ana the facts in the letter, answered whatever questions Ana had, and discussed travel options. Ana promised not to breathe a word, even to her mother, until after Hermione'd gone.  
  
Hermione didn't know how much faith she should put in the word of a person who had been lying to her for the past three years, but she had little choice. She didn't want to arrive to a welcoming committee. Not for Professor McGonagall's last will and testament. Though it was a bit late to care. It didn't matter if Ana alerted the Daily Prophet, Witches Weekly, the Quibbler, and every other magical news outlet between here and Greenland. McGonagall was dead, and Hermione Granger was about to make her official re-entrance into the wizarding world.  
  
She didn't want to be here. After years of sunshine and steaming days, Scotland in the dead of winter was a horror. Add to that the fact that she was about to face every memory she had worked so hard to suppress, and Hermione wished she'd never opened that damned letter. She didn't want to be here!


	3. Remember

Hermione Granger always did things the hard way. He knew that. She would put clues together, say things like, "Maybe," and, "Of course!" and then disappear for hours while she tested her conclusions. It had irritated him when they were twelve, and it drove him mad now they were adults. "I'm not coming back," then nothing? For four years? He was used to her lack of explanations, but wasn't that a bit overboard?  
  
On the one hand, he understood. How many times had he wanted to chuck his wand and disappear? But he hadn't. No, he had faced his responsibilities, Hermione-like, while she had escaped.  
  
On the other hand, they'd gone through hell together. Surely he, of all people, deserved an owl once in awhile? Christmastime, at least. Instead, she'd made things difficult, not just for herself, but for all of them. And now, when he really needed her and her level-headedness, she was out of his reach. He didn't even know where she was.  
  
Snape knew something, he was sure of it. For years he'd been dropping hints, mentioning Hermione whenever Harry made wild threats. The war may have been over, Harry and Snape may have called a truce, but they never lost an opportunity to spite each other. "You'll want to look your best, Potter," the greasy git said. "Old friends will be dropping by. Professor McGonagall was important to more than just yourself."  
  
Harry only glared at the hook-nosed new headmaster and returned his attention to the landscape that had so coloured his childhood. A biting cold wind howled across the Hogwarts grounds. On the edge of the Forbidden Forest a light glowed in the gamekeeper's hut. Hagrid had aged swiftly since Dumbledore's death. While still enormous, he seemed to take up less space somehow. His hair and beard were shot through with white, and he rarely left his cabin except for lessons.  
  
The Forbidden Forest glittered in the moonlight, deceptively quiet in the winter night. Though it was no longer forbidden to him, Harry didn't like it. It no longer held adventure, but death. He'd done battle there. He'd killed there. He turned away.  
  
There was the Quidditch pitch, where Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell had been killed by Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy in a macabre Quidditch match. The Whomping Willow, where Charlie Weasley had lost a leg, swayed against the wind, pulverizing any snowflake daring enough to go near it. The lake, into which Viktor Krum dived one too many times, was frozen over. They'd never found Viktor's body. In fact, everywhere Harry turned, he saw the final resting place of someone he'd known.  
  
And now Professor McGonagall was dead. He wondered when, and where, it would all end.  
  
"Let's go, Potter," Snape grumbled.  
  
It seemed the only good thing to come out of this latest tragedy was watching Snape struggle to be gracious to people he'd always despised. Harry grudgingly straightened his robes and followed Snape out of the office and down to the dungeons, where a Ministry official was waiting to read McGonagall's will. Harry thought he already knew what it would say, but he was Harry Potter – he had to be there. Snape would get the headship, of course. Lupin would be asked to stay on for Transfiguration. He, Harry, would be left McGonagall's old office and the position of Head of Gryffindor House. The whole reordering of Hogwarts would be detailed in the will. As her last act of well-meaning dictatorship, Professor McGonagall would make sure that her directives for the school were honoured, even after she was gone.  
  
The only real mystery, in fact, was if Hermione had been found and whether or not she'd come back. It had been bruited about at the funeral that McGonagall had something she'd always meant to give Hermione, but no one knew what it was.  
  
He stopped at the doorway to the old Potions classroom, unwilling to cross the threshold. "Move, Potter," Snape grumbled, and Harry did as ordered – a knee-jerk reaction built over years of studying Potions under the surliest teacher at Hogwarts.  
  
Behind Snape's old desk now stood a Ministry official so old and decrepit Harry hardly knew if it was a man or woman. Only Snape's brusque greeting, "Madam Aris," gave it away. But the ancient witch was not the most extraordinary sight to meet Harry's eyes. As he turned to find a seat, he saw that the entire dungeon was filled with people.  
  
Most of the Hogwarts staff had retired after Voldemort's downfall. Harry understood: the Last Battle had been fought in and around the castle. Only those who has nowhere else to go had remained. The violence wrought in corridors and on the grounds had left its mark in ways that few who had lived through it could stomach. A new generation of teachers had risen up to take the places of the Sprouts and Vectors and Flitwicks of the past. Even old Binns had retired – though he continued to haunt the castle. Around the room, though, it seemed the new and old generations had come together one last time.  
  
Dozens of past students filled their old seats in the Potions classroom. Harry nodded to Dean Thomas, who was sitting with Lavender Brown. There was Oliver Wood, who was wearing a black armband with his Puddlemere United uniform in honour of his late Head of House. And the Weasleys were out in full force: Bill, with Fleur Delacour. Charlie, wooden leg attached, beside his mother. Fred, George, and George's wife Melissa. Percy and Penelope. Ron, with Susan Bones, whose hair was red enough to suit any Weasley. Ginny, looking radiantly pregnant, holding her husband's hand. Only Mr. Weasley was missing. He had died valiantly, battling Lucius Malfoy.  
  
There were others, too. Clarendon McGonagall, the good professor's only living relative, was there, sitting in the first row. Harry had met her – "Call me Claree" – at the funeral in November. Claree was about as magical as Harry's left shoe, but she'd heard tales all her life about her mysterious great-aunt and was here in hope of receiving a fortune. Harry had disliked her from the first and understood perfectly well why Professor McGonagall had never mentioned her.  
  
Aside from this fortune-hunting distant relation, Trelawney was there, down from her attic hideaway. Cornelius Fudge, though Harry didn't know what that disgrace to Wizard-kind expected to receive. Rosemerta, from the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Professor Sprout (retired now), Tonks, Lupin, Luna Lovegood and her crackpot father, and at least thirty others Harry knew. He nodded to them all before finding a seat with the Weasleys. His back was thus turned when the dungeon door opened to admit one last person. One look at his best friend's face, however, told him who had finally arrived. Harry sat beside Ron and Susan and faced her.  
  
Hermione.  
  
-o-  
  
It wasn't as bad as she'd feared – it was worse. Far worse. How big a fool was she to Apparate into Hogsmeade and take the old Honeydukes passage back to the castle? She should have come back on a plane. To London. After several years of avoiding magic, the effort required to cross half the globe in a single bound left her shaking and ill. And there was still the long walk through the secret tunnel to consider. By the time she arrived at the Potions classroom, her skin was grey and clammy, though her cheeks were flushed, and she was about to fall down. Not quite the grand entrance Ana had convinced her of.  
  
And then, all those eyes staring at her! She could see the recrimination in Ginny's eyes, and Ron's, even from this distance. They would be slow to forgive her, if they ever did. And Molly – Hermione couldn't meet Molly's gaze; it was too painful. Hermione was to blame for Arthur's death, after all. If she'd been stronger, she could have handled Lucius Malfoy on her own.  
  
She averted her gaze from the Weasleys and landed them on Snape, which was just as bad – perhaps worse. He sat there, so knowing and superior: Hermione could almost feel the smirk on his lips. She knew that he could read her mind, probably was doing it at that very moment. Her defences had never been weaker, but she didn't care. She swung away once more, completely unaware she was reeling around the room like a drunkard, and finally looked at Harry. What she saw in his green eyes almost pushed her to her knees.  
  
Snape, of all people, rescued her. "Sit down, Ms. Granger," he barked, "before you fall down." A chair appeared to her right, near the door, and she fell into it without a word.  
  
Madam Aris cleared her throat in an eerily familiar way, "Hem hem," before beginning to read. "The last will and testament of Minerva Louise Chadwyck Boudicca McGonagall." As the ancient witch droned on, Hermione fought to regain control of her body. Slowly, calmly, concentrating on nothing but the ancient stone floor beneath her feet, she drew several deep breaths and felt the nausea pass. Soon, the cold sweat ceased, as well as the trembling. By the time she heard her name read from the legal scroll, some of her natural colour had returned.  
  
"To Hermione Granger, provided she returns from Thailand in time to hear this read, I leave the post of Potions Mistress and Head of Slytherin House, as well as the complete contents of my library, to be dispensed with as she sees fit. If Miss Granger does not return, I leave her my regards and this piece of advice: Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure."

At this Madam Aris looked up and adjusted her bifocals. "It appears Hermione Granger has fulfilled her end, so she will receive the assets as laid out." One rheumy glance at Hermione, then the Ministry official returned to her droning, leaving Hermione's mind reeling.

What was McGonagall playing at, making her Potions Mistress? And head of Slytherin to boot? Madness! She hadn't even so much as whispered a spell in almost three years. How was she supposed to take up the reins of Snape's old house, for God's sake?

...Though McGonagall's library would be an amazing addition to her own reference books.

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A/N: Thanks, reviewers! Feedback rocks. I haven't written any fanfics in almost two years, so I'm glad to know that at least it's still interesting…

Sorry about any confusion or total wrong-ness with the will stuff. I have no idea about legalese in general, or magical British legalese in particular. Any tips y'all have, I'll happily accept!

And…um…Kosam. Are you kidding me? Don't be ridiculous, okay? One, there are really only seven plots in all of fiction (Writing Fiction, by Garry Disher). Two, I didn't steal anything. I don't need to, thanks very much. Three, puh-LEEZE! If you're going to question the integrity of my writing, at least back it up. Whose story do you think I "stole"? Show me. And whose memories of Bangkok am I channelling, if not my own? Just wondering.

Cheers! And happy reading.


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